


The End Of The F***ing World

by conboimckinky



Category: Misfits (TV 2009)
Genre: M/M, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-14 02:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15378894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conboimckinky/pseuds/conboimckinky
Summary: When Nathan Young tells Simon Bellamy he's 'Shit' at playing piano, neither of them expect a cross-country escape from the law.





	1. Chapter 1

Simon Bellamy was 17.  
And he was a psychopath.  
He was 8 when he realised he didn't have a sense of humour- or maybe his dad was really bad at telling jokes, and maybe that was why he'd always wanted to punch him in the face.  
When he was 9 years old, his dad brought a deep-fat fryer. He'd seen it on a US shopping channel, effectively blowing a weeks wages. It got used once.  
When Simon put his hand in it. He wanted to make himself feel.  
When he was 15, he put his neighbours cat in a box and took it into the woods. It probably had a name. He didn't care.  
But it didn't stop there. After that, he killed more animals, and he remembered every single one. It became an obsession. Butterflies, rabbits, crows, rats- anything with a pulse.  
Simon had a plan. He hated school, having always been a freak, but it was a good place for 'observation and selection'. He was going to kill something bigger.  
Much bigger.  
-  
So he sat in the lunch hall and played along. People ate and talked. Simon turned his music all the way up and read piano notes until someone walked up to him.  
"I've heard you playing."  
Simon looked up. A boy- Nathan- who he'd never spoken to before in his life. The accent shocked him. Strong, Irish. Curly hair and angry eyes. Obviously after something.  
"You're pretty shit."  
"Fuck off."  
\--  
Nathan had a lot of moments where he needed to lie down. Things seemed to feel 'too much' way too often. He could look up and see the blue or the grey or the black, and feel himself melting slowly into it; like a cold, comforting embrace. In those split seconds Nathan felt free. Happy and innocent- like a dog at the park, or a bright green alien, or a careless newborn baby.  
Nathan used to adore his mother. His dad left when he was 8. He never fitted in. Couldn't settle. He hadn't seen him since, but he sent a birthday card without fail every year. Nathan supposed he understood. Sometimes he wanted to up and go. He didn't trust people who fitted in. They always seemed like zombies. Or robots.  
Or zombie robots.  
His mother remarried. A total dickhead named Jeremy. Nathan despised him with a ridiculous amount of passion. Once, Jeremy had told him it was no suprise he didn't have a girlfriend considering the way he dressed.  
Nathan threw a chicken nugget at his head.  
His mum pretended not to see or hear.  
The blind leading the blind.  
Now she had the perfect house, in the perfect neighbourhood, with perfect twins, and the perfect husband. Too perfect. So, like his dad, Nathan didn't fit in.  
-  
Why did people text constantly?  
Nathan watched his phone screen light up as his row of friends texted eachother like they were a country away instead of sitting a flimsy plastic seat to the left. He ate in silence until his own phone pinged.  
A text. From his mate.  
Who was sat right in front of him.  
"Are you fuckin' serious?" Nathan asked across his lunch tray.  
"What?"  
"I'm right 'ere. Literally right fuckin' 'ere!"  
"So?"  
That was it. Nathan grabbed his phone and gritted his teeth. He slammed the device to the floor and glared at the group.  
He knew that he'd regret that at some point, but at least the brainless zombie-robots understood the message.  
So Nathan held his head high and marched off.  
To a table in the middle of the room where a solitary guy sat at the end. He had headphones on and was staring at a book, although his eyes didn't actually scan words.  
"I've heard you playing," Nathan announced.  
He hadn't.  
"You're pretty shit."  
"Fuck off."  
\--


	2. Chapter 2

Actually, when he thought about it, Simon had definitely heard of Nathan.  
He was new- had joined that term- but didn't seem to hold back at all. He'd become know for his offensive sense of humour and inflated pride almost instantly.  
Typically, Nathan Young was the exact type of person Simon avoided.  
The chatter in the hall seemed to fade, and Simon peered skeptically up at Nathan.  
Yes, he would be interesting to kill, he thought.  
Nathan seemed satisfied with himself. He smirked before continuing his march out of the hall. For some added flair, he kicked over the bin near the door. Barely anyone looked up from their phone.  
"Bollocks!" Nathan yelled, opening and closing the door with a conclusive bang. Simon flinched at the noise.  
-  
Something told Simon he should wait for Nathan after school. While he sat, watching restless students bustle their way home, he decided on a plan.  
He'd become Nathan's friend. From what Simon had seen and heard, the rude Irishman was almost as lacking in the social graces as himself. Their town was boring- like someone had seen the colour 'mud-brown' and made a whole town out of it- so it was no surprise that Nathan's tongue-in-cheek humour was rarely well-received. Simon didn't understand the jokes he shouted out in class, either. He'd assumed it was an Irish thing.  
"Are you waitin' for little ol' me?" Nathan called from the top of the stairs in a fake Southern drawl, sarcasm in every syllable.  
"Uh, yes...?" Simon replied. It came out as a question.  
"Well, thank fuck, because I need a drinkin' buddy sometimes."  
He bounced down the stairs with a curious amount of elegance. How could someone with such vile manners move in such a beautiful way?  
Simon blinked, and then gulped slowly. As a rule, he didn't drink. Not with other people. They usually wanted to share things, and he hated that.  
"I'm jokin', man," Nathan clarified, folding his arms, "don't be dense. C'mon, we'll jus' walk home, you look a bit pervy hidin' in those fuckin' bushes."  
"I'm not a pervert," Simon told him simply.  
They walked in silence for a while. Nathan lit a cigarette, and offered it to Simon; an offer he happily turned down. It began to get quite irritating, the silence between the two.  
When Simon looked at Nathan, he didn't really see a person. Instead he saw an opportunity. Looking at him, Simon could imagine a knife dripping with blood, hot red tangled into Nathan's curled mane. It made his chest flutter slightly. What was killing a person like? He reasoned with himself internally; he'd be as numb to killing a person as he'd been crushing ants between his fingers as a child.  
"What?" Nathan barked suddenly.  
The break in the silence took Simon by surprise. He blinked, like a deer in headlights, and then forced himself to go back to staring ahead.  
"Nothing," he muttered.  
"You're a right fuckin' freak, Barry," Nathan replied.  
"Who's Barry?"  
"You."  
"Okay."


End file.
